coward, too? What am I going to do? Patience,
Monsieur, and you will see." The Chevalier flung apart the doors. His
roistering friends greeted his appearance with delight. "A toast,
Messieurs!" he cried, flourishing his sword.

Only the Vicomte d'Halluys and Victor saw that something unusual had
taken place.

"Your friend," whispered the vicomte, "appears to be touched with a
passing madness. Look at his eyes."

"What has happened?" murmured Victor, setting down his glass.

"Bah! Monsieur le Marquis has stopped the Chevalier's allowance;" and
the vicomte sighed regretfully. From where he sat he could see the grim,
motionless figure of the marquis, standing with his back to the fire.

"Fill up the goblets, Messieurs; to the brim!" The Chevalier stumbled
among the fallen bottles. He reached the head of the table. Feverishly
he poured out a glass of wine, spilling part of it. With a laugh he
flung the bottle to the floor. "Listen!" with a sweeping glance which
took in every face. "To Monsieur le Marquis, my noble father! Up, up!"
waving his rapier. Yes, madness was in his eyes; it bubbled and frothed
in his veins, burned and cracked his lips. "It is droll! Up, you
beggars! . . . up, all of you! You, Vicomte; you, Saumaise! Drink to
the marquis, the noble marquis, the pious marquis, who gives to the
Church! Drink it, you beggars; drink it, I say!" The sword-blade rang
on the table.

"To the marquis!" cried the drunkards in chorus. They saw nothing; all
was dead within, save appetite.

"Ah, that is well! Listen. All this about you will one day be mine?
Ah! I shall be called Monsieur le Marquis; I shall possess famous
chateaux and magnificent hotels? Fools! 'twas all a lie! I who was am
not. I vanish from the scene like a play-actor. Drink it, you beggars!
Drink it, you wine-bibbers! Drink it, you gamesters, you hunters of
women! Drink to me, the marquis's . . . bastard!"

Twelve glasses hung in mid air; twelve faces were transfixed with horror
and incredulity; twelve pairs of eyes stared stupidly at the mad
toast-master. In the salon the marquis listened with eyes distended,
with jaw fallen, lips sunken inward and of a color as sickly as blue
chalk. . . . A maudlin sob caught one roisterer by the throat, and the
tableau was broken by the falling of his glass to the table, where it lay
shattered in foaming wine.

"Paul," cried Victor; "my God, Paul, are you mad?"

"I know you not.